trapped in this owl creek bridfge shit riding alonf with you until my brain rins our of gas. why do you want to knowbdobyou want to investigate something oh part ner of mine
[His room is private - when the door’s not open to let Sumo in and out, anyway - and it’s where he keeps his shit. He wouldn’t be anywhere else.
At the moment it’s not open, so it is private, and Sumo’s plopped in front of it, having come back some time after Hank shut himself in.]
assume whatefer you wanr i xant fuckinf srop yiu i cant stop anythinf in this fuxking place
[If Connor does try to come in the door is unlocked. Hank will be on the bed slumped against the wall, doodling on said wall in the ash from the end of the stick he’d been dragging along the halls in his video earlier.]
[Connor doesn’t reply to this text, deciding instead to make his way directly to Hank’s room. When he arrives, he finds the door shut and Sumo plopped on the ground against it, in that way animals do when they clearly want in somewhere but are barred by a closed door and lack of opposable thumbs.]
Hey Sumo. [He says lightly and — ignoring decorum, because what’s the point of knocking when Hank is like this? — he opens the door. Eyes peer in, but first he lets Sumo through, if the canine is so inclined.]
[Sumo perks up and makes his way in and Hank doesn't look over at either of them, just keeps tracing over the older lines of ash on the wall next to him. He doesn't need hand-eye coordination to do this - he's been here long enough that he's redrawn this shit plenty of times by now.]
You really think it still means anything, or do you just like saying it?
[Connor follows just behind Sumo, but his eyes never pull away from Hank on his bed, who’s tracing something into the wall with ash.]
Because you’re a Lieutenant. Do you think that changes just because we’re no longer in Detroit? Am I no longer an investigative android, by that logic?
[But Connor’s voice has lost a small degree of its usual emphatic delivery. The rhetoric is a little quieter, tossing out a scan over Hank without saying as much, to check his status.
Said scan blossoms past the man and to the drawings on the wall, too, by their very nature. And Connor pulls his gaze away to see what he’s sketching.]
[Connor can probably figure the status of a number of things in this room, even without a real thorough scan. Sumo’s status: over at his food bowl, eating. Hank’s status: drunk as fuck. Of course. The bottle’s status: in its usual spot, on the gap on the floor between the bed and the wall. The wall’s status: currently being redecorated with a series of shapes that look vaguely like a little cat hanging off a branch and the caption, in all caps, HANG IN THERE. Ha ha.]
Maybe that’s why you’re so set on all this... all this fuckin... this stuff. When you’re not investigating any more you’ll be... I don’t know. Junk, right? Go into retirement as a mannequin, you got the face for it already, and the stick figure legs. People aren’t like that, Connor. We’re not... not what we’re for, like you. Its not like that for us.
[Connor’s fingers curl in on themselves, close to his palms, before he forcibly relaxes them. Eyes cast themselves over the faux motivational poster of a cat being drawn on the wall, which means nothing to him in terms of irony or experience.
He purposefully avoids one branch of the conversation, the one that centers around his fate when he’s no longer fulfilling the purpose sequestered to him. Junk, or delegated to perpetual standby, collecting a fine sheen of dust while he stands in a storage unit somewhere.
No, this isn’t about him, and he won’t allow Hank to bend the subject in his direction.]
Humans require a sense of purpose too, Hank. Androids are simply pre-installed with one.
[Connor crouches down and grips the bottle on the floor, holding it up to see if there’s even a small remainder of liquid at the bottom. Tips it over at an angle to let a droplet fall onto his finger, then presses said finger to his tongue. Real-time analysis routines kick up into life — what are you drinking, Hank? What’s the proof of this alcohol?]
[The hand holding the stick sinks down to Hank’s lap and he leans his head against the wall, frowning, to watch Connor.]
Sorry Connor, this pity party’s only for poor schmucks who had their purpose uninstalled. But if you really wanna see if you can get drunk I bet this shit could do the trick. Could go get more, long’s you don’t blame me when it strips all your little screws and gears or whatever the hell it is you got in there.
[He doesn’t respond immediately, pulling his finger away and looking at it — as if the answers are there. And in his mind’s eye, they do crop up with expected efficiency. Connor frowns.]
160 proof. [what the heck hank] Who’s providing this to you? The alcohol content is inordinately high.
[Unless bootlegging is one of Hank’s secret skill, Connor doesn’t think he’s tossing together moonshine on his own. He gives the man a look wrapped up in both assessment and vague concern.]
[Hank’s voice is soft, thoughtful, and then half his lips twist up. When he looks from the bottle to Connor his gaze isn’t clear, but it’s closer to it than it’s got any right to be.]
Why, you thinkin maybe I don’t need that gun after all? You gonna go track down my dealer, kick his ass?
[If there’s an edge to those words when he says it, eyes snapping up to meet Hank’s, it’s gone as quickly as it arrived. Connor sets the bottle down with a small clink as it settles onto the ground.]
You can’t keep doing this to yourself just because of the circumstances that we currently find ourselves in. I know this isn’t our home, and sometimes things are... difficult to understand, but it isn’t the hopeless situation you seem to be making it out to be.
Nah, not hopeless, Connor. Hopeless is kinda... I don't know.
[He shifts against the wall, looking down, his hair falling over his face.]
It's stupid, I know it is, but I can't- I can't handle this like you can. I told you that. Even the stupid shit, when they tell me this shit and I, I just can't- If this felt more like I was dreaming I think I could handle it. But it- the whole-
[Talking about it's harder when Connor's right here, looking at him. Connor knows about it, says he found him passed out on the floor afterward, even, but it's still hard.]
It'd make it make sense, you know? If I was just done, that'd make all this make sense. I don't know why you're tryin so hard to prove me wrong but- fuck, does it matter? I'll remember how to get my ass up and perform tomorrow, and the day after that, and whenever you wanna make bff bracelets and investigate shit I'll be there and, shit, does it really matter what I'm thinkin while I'm doin it?
[Connor's yet to straighten from his crouching position, trying to catch Hank's expression from under that veil of hair, as if while under deep scrutiny he could unearth a solution to this problem. To Hank's constant, deep-seated dysphoria, as if it were something he could reach out and wrest away from him if he tried hard enough.
He can't, he knows.]
Of course it does. [A simple reply, at least, because it's an easy enough question to answer.] Do you think I don't take your mental and emotional state into account? Are you under the impression that I only care if it affects your performance in day-to-day activities?
[More importantly-] Is there anything I can do to make... any of this easier for you?
[Hank lets out a long, slow breath. Then he slouches a little more, shoulders hunching. After what feels like a long couple seconds Hank shakes his head, not looking up. After a couple more seconds, he actually has an answer.]
You could promise you're not gonna give the guy who makes this one hundred-sixty proof paint thinner any shit. I know it's- I know... I know what I am, Connor. But. It helps. I guess you wouldn't know but just- letting all the shit float to the top, just letting it- It's good, sometimes. I know it doesn't look like it, but it helps. I know you don't get that, but can you take my word for it, that you're just- I don't know. I don't know what you are. I don't know what I'm trying to say. Maybe you oughta ask me when I'm sober.
[It helps, Hank says, and maybe he believes that it does. Connor knows that he relies on it, that it makes reality (both versions of it -- here and in Detroit) easier to contend with, dulling the edges of broken pieces.
But Connor, based on the knowledge he possesses of humans and why they act the way they do, knows it doesn't really help. That this is temporary, and he's just seeing a small segment of the circle that forms a perpetually revolving cycle. Over and over and over. The proof's in the Lieutenant's past, in his file, from a decorated officer to a man who can't be bothered to show up to his job on time.]
...Maybe. But I can't agree with some of that; crucially, I can't agree that this helps you at all. Not in the long run.
[He looks at the nearly-empty bottle next to him, reflecting the faint glow of his jacket back at him.]
I just want a name. I only want to talk to whoever's making this, nothing more.
[Hank laughs. It's a surprised sound and, of course, not a happy one.]
You sound like me. Sort of.
[He closes his eyes, about as slumped over and closed off from Connor as he can get without turning his back to him.]
That last part, anyway. Though, I mean, one person doesn't really make a supply and drinking shit's not illegal, on my end, anyway.
[He just breathes for a second, quiet, too focused on it, on just breathing, on wading through all the shit Connor's stirring up to recognize the clue he just dropped. Maybe Firo won't mind so much - anyone who makes a living running shit that fucks with people's self control probably out to be used to just this kind of leak.]
Dunno why you're so worried-
[He stops, swallows, and a hand reaches under his hair to rub at his face.]
Why're you so worked up about the long run, anyway? Seen guys go harder than me for twenty years or more before their liver kicks it. Really think talkin bout the long run's gonna convince me? 's pretty optimistic. Told you that, didn't I? You're an optimist. Weird as hell.
He's too much of what he is, to not pick up that little clue like it were sticking out like a sore thumb. As if it were highlighted amongst the rest of what Hank was saying, and Connor will partition it away to the back of his mind to tend to. Already, his database pulls up an array of names and faces that he's familiar with; he hems them away, one by one, when parameters of time period don't match.
All this, and he doesn't say as much. Keeps the majority of his attentions on Hank, while background processes whir quietly elsewhere.]
And didn't I already tell you? I'm only being realistic.
[Connor stands instead of staying on the floor, leaving the bottle where it is. He moves to a nearby chair to have this conversation instead of looming over Hank -- the implication being clear: he is going to involve himself in a conversation.]
Hank, is it that you miss home, or is it that you miss the... predicability of it? A standardization of expectations that can't be found here?
[That seems to be the case, according to what he can glean from him. But he does wonder if Detroit calls to Hank in different ways than it does to himself. Connor, who feels the tug of obligation -- of work unfinished -- like a noose around his neck.]
[He mutters it to himself. There’s a phrase you’d only hear out of a plastic mouth.]
I miss... dunno. Miss real food. I miss whiskey. Kind of miss white noise- TV, you know? Other than that - fuck, it’s actually easier here? In a fuckin... fucked up kind of way? Outside the weird shit, I mean. Don’t even have to get up in the morning.
[Sumo, done eating and unhappy with the floor, wanders over to the bed and hefts himself up onto it, his head nudging Hank’s arm as he does. Hank jerks back like he’s been shocked, only taking in what touched him after he’s gone far back enough to accidentally wedge himself on the other side of the bed between it and the wall.
He looks at Sumo a second and laughs, embarrassed, closing his eyes again and rubbing a hand over them.]
[Connor sits, hands in his lap, fingers curled gently in on themselves. He watches as Sumo clambers onto Hank’s bed and bumps against him consequently — just as he watches as the Lieutenant jolts away from the touch.
Saying that he thought it was Connor makes something rear up in that part of himself that he’s keeping cordoned off and away, ignored. It feels like stark disappointment.]
Because of your power, you’re afraid of a repeat of what happened...? [He suppositions, lowly. To view that’s how Hank might react if Connor reached for him is less than encouraging. ]
Fuck, aren’t you? You know I- You know where my head’s at right now, that’s the whole reason you’re here, right? Although, I mean- shit.
[Hank pauses, taking in the way his attempts to un-wedge himself just made him slide in a little deeper, at an angle. Well, he didn’t need that dignity, anyway. It’s not like he was using it.]
I mean, I finished that bottle off and I’m still here, so unless you wanna go through my shit for sharp objects there’s nothing left for you to stick around and watch out for, so.
[Connor watches him again for a few long moments, then there's only the rustle of clothing as he stands and walks over to Hank. Extends a hand, offering to heft him up from where he's found himself stuck.
The unspoken answer to that is therefore made clear, regarding any doubt, any anxiety of an emotion-sharing repeat. (Steel his insides, become stoic, solid, unmoving by the threat of it again. Be like an android should be.) And if not, Connor is quick to say it:]
I'm not going anywhere; where else am I going to go, or what else am I going to do for now? And I'm not going to refrain from helping you just because there may be a chance of your power activating. Going forward, that simply won't work.
[Hank looks at Connor. He looks at Connor’s hand. Looking at him now, at that naive, stubborn piece of shit that’s only ever wanted to help, that’s only ever wanted to hang around him and wanted to help, it stirs up the same desperate, ugly bullshit it stirred up when Connor’d said he was coming to Hank’s room, the same shit it’d stirred up when Hank had said okay, sure, maybe there’ll be a point when I’m your partner again and Connor had smiled at him and Hank had smiled back.
The surprise on his face twists into dismay, then anger.]
You don’t even know what emotions are, you stupid shithead. I don’t give a shit if you’re willing to do that to yourself again but I’m not. No. Fuck you. No.
[He tries to shove himself away but there’s no more away to move, and the only thing that moves is the bed from under him, making him slide down a little bit more.]
Shit.
[Kind of trapped now, isn’t he? Hank’s voice, under the anger, goes desperate.]
That won’t work why? What the fuck is it you want to even do?
[He expected protest. Maybe that's why Connor doesn't seem to be bothered by the anger, standing still as he is, hand continually extended in an offer of help that won't so easily be dismissed.
Hank says he doesn't even know what emotions are, and maybe he doesn't. Maybe all he knows are the errors that are flickering across his coding, how they dance in his chest even now, especially now. But he'll take those words and twist them into wretched defiance; let them enforce an android's ingrained nature to be unflappable in the face of human emotion, to let Hank's angry display hit him in a wave and roll right off of his shoulders.]
I want to help you. I want to be able to work with you without having to be concerned about your concern of me. I want you to trust me when I say that I can handle it; I mean it this time. I can. I'm not made of glass. I won't break.
[Maybe that's a lie; it doesn't matter.]
You're right when you say that I don't know what emotions are, and you should consider that a reason to not be concerned. If I experience what you're feeling, then what? I'll jettison them out of my mind, labelling them as yours. Compartmentalize and pay no real regard to the experience. What if we find ourselves in situations where I have to grab onto you? Or the other way around? I can't hesitate, and I won't let your power break my focus.
So we work through it. Take my hand.
[Maybe Hank's power won't even activate. Maybe it will. But this trust has to happen; otherwise it's not a partnership at all.]
Edited (my turn to nitpick) 2018-10-20 23:15 (UTC)
[The panic in Hank's voice breaks through the anger at the end there, cracking right into the middle of the word, and Hank's eyes dart over Connor's shoulder, trying to figure out if he has enough room, if he could make it, if he was fast enough.]
What if it's not your decision to make, Connor? What if this shit's private? What if I don't want you to fuckin know!
[That last word's harsh with effort as he shoves at the bed. In Hank's head, with the confidence of the fairly drunk, Hank imagines moving the bed would stagger Connor long enough for Hank to get to his feet and be out the door and be- Where, after that? Who cares. Out of arm's reach.
That's what Hank imagines. What really goes down is this: Hank falls on his ass. Hank scrambles to his feet. Hank's shin slams against the corner of the bed and he heads down toward the floor and failure. That's reality. Reality's tough. Even in a sort-of coma dream in your own head, things don't always go the way you want. That's life.]
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no subject
trapped in this owl creek bridfge shit riding alonf with you until my brain rins our of gas. why do you want to knowbdobyou want to investigate something oh part ner of mineno subject
You’re in your room, I assume?
[It’s likely. It’s where Hank is fond of retreating to drink, he’s noted.]
no subject
At the moment it’s not open, so it is private, and Sumo’s plopped in front of it, having come back some time after Hank shut himself in.]
assume whatefer you wanr i xant fuckinf srop yiu i cant stop anythinf in this fuxking place[If Connor does try to come in the door is unlocked. Hank will be on the bed slumped against the wall, doodling on said wall in the ash from the end of the stick he’d been dragging along the halls in his video earlier.]
no subject
Hey Sumo. [He says lightly and — ignoring decorum, because what’s the point of knocking when Hank is like this? — he opens the door. Eyes peer in, but first he lets Sumo through, if the canine is so inclined.]
Lieutenant?
no subject
[Sumo perks up and makes his way in and Hank doesn't look over at either of them, just keeps tracing over the older lines of ash on the wall next to him. He doesn't need hand-eye coordination to do this - he's been here long enough that he's redrawn this shit plenty of times by now.]
You really think it still means anything, or do you just like saying it?
no subject
Because you’re a Lieutenant. Do you think that changes just because we’re no longer in Detroit? Am I no longer an investigative android, by that logic?
[But Connor’s voice has lost a small degree of its usual emphatic delivery. The rhetoric is a little quieter, tossing out a scan over Hank without saying as much, to check his status.
Said scan blossoms past the man and to the drawings on the wall, too, by their very nature. And Connor pulls his gaze away to see what he’s sketching.]
no subject
[Connor can probably figure the status of a number of things in this room, even without a real thorough scan. Sumo’s status: over at his food bowl, eating. Hank’s status: drunk as fuck. Of course. The bottle’s status: in its usual spot, on the gap on the floor between the bed and the wall. The wall’s status: currently being redecorated with a series of shapes that look vaguely like a little cat hanging off a branch and the caption, in all caps, HANG IN THERE. Ha ha.]
Maybe that’s why you’re so set on all this... all this fuckin... this stuff. When you’re not investigating any more you’ll be... I don’t know. Junk, right? Go into retirement as a mannequin, you got the face for it already, and the stick figure legs. People aren’t like that, Connor. We’re not... not what we’re for, like you. Its not like that for us.
no subject
He purposefully avoids one branch of the conversation, the one that centers around his fate when he’s no longer fulfilling the purpose sequestered to him. Junk, or delegated to perpetual standby, collecting a fine sheen of dust while he stands in a storage unit somewhere.
No, this isn’t about him, and he won’t allow Hank to bend the subject in his direction.]
Humans require a sense of purpose too, Hank. Androids are simply pre-installed with one.
[Connor crouches down and grips the bottle on the floor, holding it up to see if there’s even a small remainder of liquid at the bottom. Tips it over at an angle to let a droplet fall onto his finger, then presses said finger to his tongue. Real-time analysis routines kick up into life — what are you drinking, Hank? What’s the proof of this alcohol?]
no subject
[The hand holding the stick sinks down to Hank’s lap and he leans his head against the wall, frowning, to watch Connor.]
Sorry Connor, this pity party’s only for poor schmucks who had their purpose uninstalled. But if you really wanna see if you can get drunk I bet this shit could do the trick. Could go get more, long’s you don’t blame me when it strips all your little screws and gears or whatever the hell it is you got in there.
no subject
160 proof. [what the heck hank] Who’s providing this to you? The alcohol content is inordinately high.
[Unless bootlegging is one of Hank’s secret skill, Connor doesn’t think he’s tossing together moonshine on his own. He gives the man a look wrapped up in both assessment and vague concern.]
cw mention of suicide
[Hank’s voice is soft, thoughtful, and then half his lips twist up. When he looks from the bottle to Connor his gaze isn’t clear, but it’s closer to it than it’s got any right to be.]
Why, you thinkin maybe I don’t need that gun after all? You gonna go track down my dealer, kick his ass?
no subject
[If there’s an edge to those words when he says it, eyes snapping up to meet Hank’s, it’s gone as quickly as it arrived. Connor sets the bottle down with a small clink as it settles onto the ground.]
You can’t keep doing this to yourself just because of the circumstances that we currently find ourselves in. I know this isn’t our home, and sometimes things are... difficult to understand, but it isn’t the hopeless situation you seem to be making it out to be.
no subject
[He shifts against the wall, looking down, his hair falling over his face.]
It's stupid, I know it is, but I can't- I can't handle this like you can. I told you that. Even the stupid shit, when they tell me this shit and I, I just can't- If this felt more like I was dreaming I think I could handle it. But it- the whole-
[Talking about it's harder when Connor's right here, looking at him. Connor knows about it, says he found him passed out on the floor afterward, even, but it's still hard.]
It'd make it make sense, you know? If I was just done, that'd make all this make sense. I don't know why you're tryin so hard to prove me wrong but- fuck, does it matter? I'll remember how to get my ass up and perform tomorrow, and the day after that, and whenever you wanna make bff bracelets and investigate shit I'll be there and, shit, does it really matter what I'm thinkin while I'm doin it?
no subject
He can't, he knows.]
Of course it does. [A simple reply, at least, because it's an easy enough question to answer.] Do you think I don't take your mental and emotional state into account? Are you under the impression that I only care if it affects your performance in day-to-day activities?
[More importantly-] Is there anything I can do to make... any of this easier for you?
no subject
You could promise you're not gonna give the guy who makes this one hundred-sixty proof paint thinner any shit. I know it's- I know... I know what I am, Connor. But. It helps. I guess you wouldn't know but just- letting all the shit float to the top, just letting it- It's good, sometimes. I know it doesn't look like it, but it helps. I know you don't get that, but can you take my word for it, that you're just- I don't know. I don't know what you are. I don't know what I'm trying to say. Maybe you oughta ask me when I'm sober.
no subject
But Connor, based on the knowledge he possesses of humans and why they act the way they do, knows it doesn't really help. That this is temporary, and he's just seeing a small segment of the circle that forms a perpetually revolving cycle. Over and over and over. The proof's in the Lieutenant's past, in his file, from a decorated officer to a man who can't be bothered to show up to his job on time.]
...Maybe. But I can't agree with some of that; crucially, I can't agree that this helps you at all. Not in the long run.
[He looks at the nearly-empty bottle next to him, reflecting the faint glow of his jacket back at him.]
I just want a name. I only want to talk to whoever's making this, nothing more.
no subject
You sound like me. Sort of.
[He closes his eyes, about as slumped over and closed off from Connor as he can get without turning his back to him.]
That last part, anyway. Though, I mean, one person doesn't really make a supply and drinking shit's not illegal, on my end, anyway.
[He just breathes for a second, quiet, too focused on it, on just breathing, on wading through all the shit Connor's stirring up to recognize the clue he just dropped. Maybe Firo won't mind so much - anyone who makes a living running shit that fucks with people's self control probably out to be used to just this kind of leak.]
Dunno why you're so worried-
[He stops, swallows, and a hand reaches under his hair to rub at his face.]
Why're you so worked up about the long run, anyway? Seen guys go harder than me for twenty years or more before their liver kicks it. Really think talkin bout the long run's gonna convince me? 's pretty optimistic. Told you that, didn't I? You're an optimist. Weird as hell.
no subject
He's too much of what he is, to not pick up that little clue like it were sticking out like a sore thumb. As if it were highlighted amongst the rest of what Hank was saying, and Connor will partition it away to the back of his mind to tend to. Already, his database pulls up an array of names and faces that he's familiar with; he hems them away, one by one, when parameters of time period don't match.
All this, and he doesn't say as much. Keeps the majority of his attentions on Hank, while background processes whir quietly elsewhere.]
And didn't I already tell you? I'm only being realistic.
[Connor stands instead of staying on the floor, leaving the bottle where it is. He moves to a nearby chair to have this conversation instead of looming over Hank -- the implication being clear: he is going to involve himself in a conversation.]
Hank, is it that you miss home, or is it that you miss the... predicability of it? A standardization of expectations that can't be found here?
[That seems to be the case, according to what he can glean from him. But he does wonder if Detroit calls to Hank in different ways than it does to himself. Connor, who feels the tug of obligation -- of work unfinished -- like a noose around his neck.]
no subject
[He mutters it to himself. There’s a phrase you’d only hear out of a plastic mouth.]
I miss... dunno. Miss real food. I miss whiskey. Kind of miss white noise- TV, you know? Other than that - fuck, it’s actually easier here? In a fuckin... fucked up kind of way? Outside the weird shit, I mean. Don’t even have to get up in the morning.
[Sumo, done eating and unhappy with the floor, wanders over to the bed and hefts himself up onto it, his head nudging Hank’s arm as he does. Hank jerks back like he’s been shocked, only taking in what touched him after he’s gone far back enough to accidentally wedge himself on the other side of the bed between it and the wall.
He looks at Sumo a second and laughs, embarrassed, closing his eyes again and rubbing a hand over them.]
Fuck. Thought he was you...
no subject
Saying that he thought it was Connor makes something rear up in that part of himself that he’s keeping cordoned off and away, ignored. It feels like stark disappointment.]
Because of your power, you’re afraid of a repeat of what happened...? [He suppositions, lowly. To view that’s how Hank might react if Connor reached for him is less than encouraging. ]
no subject
[Hank pauses, taking in the way his attempts to un-wedge himself just made him slide in a little deeper, at an angle. Well, he didn’t need that dignity, anyway. It’s not like he was using it.]
I mean, I finished that bottle off and I’m still here, so unless you wanna go through my shit for sharp objects there’s nothing left for you to stick around and watch out for, so.
no subject
The unspoken answer to that is therefore made clear, regarding any doubt, any anxiety of an emotion-sharing repeat. (Steel his insides, become stoic, solid, unmoving by the threat of it again. Be like an android should be.) And if not, Connor is quick to say it:]
I'm not going anywhere; where else am I going to go, or what else am I going to do for now? And I'm not going to refrain from helping you just because there may be a chance of your power activating. Going forward, that simply won't work.
no subject
The surprise on his face twists into dismay, then anger.]
You don’t even know what emotions are, you stupid shithead. I don’t give a shit if you’re willing to do that to yourself again but I’m not. No. Fuck you. No.
[He tries to shove himself away but there’s no more away to move, and the only thing that moves is the bed from under him, making him slide down a little bit more.]
Shit.
[Kind of trapped now, isn’t he? Hank’s voice, under the anger, goes desperate.]
That won’t work why? What the fuck is it you want to even do?
no subject
Hank says he doesn't even know what emotions are, and maybe he doesn't. Maybe all he knows are the errors that are flickering across his coding, how they dance in his chest even now, especially now. But he'll take those words and twist them into wretched defiance; let them enforce an android's ingrained nature to be unflappable in the face of human emotion, to let Hank's angry display hit him in a wave and roll right off of his shoulders.]
I want to help you. I want to be able to work with you without having to be concerned about your concern of me. I want you to trust me when I say that I can handle it; I mean it this time. I can. I'm not made of glass. I won't break.
[Maybe that's a lie; it doesn't matter.]
You're right when you say that I don't know what emotions are, and you should consider that a reason to not be concerned. If I experience what you're feeling, then what? I'll jettison them out of my mind, labelling them as yours. Compartmentalize and pay no real regard to the experience. What if we find ourselves in situations where I have to grab onto you? Or the other way around? I can't hesitate, and I won't let your power break my focus.
So we work through it. Take my hand.
[Maybe Hank's power won't even activate. Maybe it will. But this trust has to happen; otherwise it's not a partnership at all.]
no subject
[The panic in Hank's voice breaks through the anger at the end there, cracking right into the middle of the word, and Hank's eyes dart over Connor's shoulder, trying to figure out if he has enough room, if he could make it, if he was fast enough.]
What if it's not your decision to make, Connor? What if this shit's private? What if I don't want you to fuckin know!
[That last word's harsh with effort as he shoves at the bed. In Hank's head, with the confidence of the fairly drunk, Hank imagines moving the bed would stagger Connor long enough for Hank to get to his feet and be out the door and be- Where, after that? Who cares. Out of arm's reach.
That's what Hank imagines. What really goes down is this: Hank falls on his ass. Hank scrambles to his feet. Hank's shin slams against the corner of the bed and he heads down toward the floor and failure. That's reality. Reality's tough. Even in a sort-of coma dream in your own head, things don't always go the way you want. That's life.]
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cw for suicidal thoughts. also melodrama alert?
i live for this kind of drama
same
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